


Oscar and Olivier

by Deepdarkwaters



Category: Kingsman (Movies) RPF
Genre: Banter, Bathing/Washing, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Old Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 04:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16211102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: "Do you know what we're saved as in Taron's phone?""Oh, god." Mark prods at the tap with his big toe, letting a top-up of hot water scald his ankles. "Collywobbles, wasn't it, for you? I think I got away with just my name.""Oscar and Olivier."





	Oscar and Olivier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theoldgods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/gifts).



The lock whirrs and clicks, and the hotel room door rasps gently against the carpet as it swings open. Mark half-stirs from his doze in the bath but then can't be bothered to call out a hello. If it's housekeeping coming in without knocking then they're welcome to an eyeful. So is the only other person with a key.

"Sulking, are you?" Colin asks from the bathroom doorway after a moment. He sounds remarkably cheerful about the idea, which is a bit rude, but it's been a long few weeks for all of them and even the sainted Mr Darcy is starting to let the cracks show.

"Washing my carcass, actually. You know how hard it is to find a good sized hotel bath."

That makes Colin laugh softly, and Mark finally opens his eyes to look at him. Then, because he's a predictable old fool, he can't help a smile in return. The Colin Firths of the world do that to a person: like a toddler splashing through puddles in brand new shiny wellies, they lumber their way from moment of pleasure to moment of pleasure with absolutely no regard for everybody else's right to a good indulgent brood.

He comes into the bathroom, puts the lid of the toilet down, and sits on it with as much unconscious grace as if it's the other kind of throne. He's utterly unashamed about the interested way he's looking Mark over in the bath, eyes sliding all the way down him from head to submerged feet. It feels like fingers, almost: Mark can still remember with high-definition clarity the wet slide of lingering, soapy hands the last time Colin wandered in on him having a bath and took it upon himself to help.

Colin places the key card he's still holding onto the counter, nudging it lightly with his thumb to line up its angles with the corner of the sink. Fastidiousness is a tell for him, as clear as any bumbling rookie just beginning to learn poker: when there's stuff he wants to say, he _fidgets_. It's strangely enjoyable seeing him like this, just a little bit unsettled, a little bit tired and rumpled in his white shirt and no tie. His hair - predictable as ever - is already starting to frizz and curl very slightly in the hot humid room.

"Do you know what we're saved as in Taron's phone?"

"Oh, god." Mark prods at the tap with his big toe, letting a top-up of hot water scald his ankles. "Collywobbles, wasn't it, for you? I think I got away with just my name."

"Oscar and Olivier."

"Oh." He's not quite sure how to respond to that one, or how much of the absurd, amused, pleased little glow in his stomach he should admit to out loud.

"Emoji glasses next to me. Emoji sparkly pink heart next to you."

"Well, that was probably his mum. I've heard a rumour she likes me more than--"

Colin reaches his hand down and flicks bathwater right into Mark's face with vicious precision. "You needn't sound so pleased about it. Fickle family. She'll throw you over for Pedro any day now."

Ay, there's the rub. "What were you saying before about sulking?"

For a while there's silence, ten minutes or so of it, comfortable and easy like it always has been between them even when little around them is. Mark closes his eyes and settles his head back against the rim of the bath, just starting to drift somewhere around the region of sleep again when he hears the squeak of the toilet lid and three light footsteps on the tiles.

"It's not sulking," Colin says softly - not because it's a secret, Mark thinks, but just because he's close enough now for a murmur to be enough, creaking to his knees right beside the bath and paddling his fingertips in the water near Mark's stomach. "Merely change."

"It happens."

"Mm." Another slosh of water. Mark can feel Colin's fingers now, the slick weight of them drawing four slow lines from the ridges of his muscles under the water up to the part of him still above it - collarbone, the hollow of his throat, the first scuff of evening stubble on his chin. "Some things don't."

"You harassing me in the bath is a perennial problem, yes." He doesn't need to add _don't stop, though_ \- that, too, is perennial. Twenty years of it has brought on something akin to telepathy these days, a curious sort of ability to read one another's moods and the spaces in between words. When they talk it's about the same kind of things any other pair of old friends talk about - family, work, politics, football, holiday plans. When they don't, it's not because there's nothing to say, but because it doesn't need to be said. Besides, kissing is a much better use of resources.

"Get out of the bath," Colin murmurs, hot and breathy against Mark's mouth, and Mark shakes his head and tugs wetly, insistently, at the front of Colin's shirt.

"Get _in_ the bath," he says, and feels Colin's laughter as an awkward and weirdly thrilling little rumble through his teeth and tongue.

"Even America doesn't have baths big enough for both of us." His hand begins to shift again, leaving Mark's face and sliding back beneath the surface of the water to rest teasingly just below the remnants of the abs that his trainer painstakingly sculpted in him for shooting, even though he never went without a top and got knocked out in the first two seconds of his only fight scene anyway. "Stay where you are if you'd rather. I've heard I suit a wet white shirt."

"You're ridiculous," Mark tells him, because he is, and Colin's face collapses into that million-watt smile that's all teeth and creases and dimples, because nobody would need telepathy to interpret what he really means. His voice is saturated with it: fond, and warm, and completely besotted in a way that's never needed props or spotlights, only space and time to settle.


End file.
